


Boy, Oh Boy I Love You When I Fall

by ellewrites



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Drug Abuse, Heavy Angst, M/M, Pretentious Writing, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-11-02 08:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellewrites/pseuds/ellewrites
Summary: Bruce kisses him and it’s so soft. Oh oh oh, it’s so, so soft. So tender. So sweet. Bruce never touches him unless it’s soft and tender and sweet and it’s almost more than he can bear but he wants it so badly. He just wants to feel good. Like this. He’s felt bad all his life and all he wants is to feel good.





	Boy, Oh Boy I Love You When I Fall

**Author's Note:**

> You know when you suddenly have the overwhelming urge to write something weird out of literally no where? Yeah. Just in case you thought I was only writing the happy vibes now, I still got that sweet, sweet poetic angst flowing through dez veins.

Soft. 

Soft. 

Soft. 

It’s all that he can think about as he runs his hand across... it. It’s on his cheek and his neck and his chest but he doesn’t know what it is. It feels good though. It’s soft. 

He can feel his heart in his chest, pounding like it’s supernaturally large, too big for his chest, and it _ hurt_. There’s something about that, on the edge of his consciousness, and it feels like – big and looming and dark. A monster under the bed. The whir of a machine then click click click. Sweeping fingers over his forehead – soft. 

Soft. 

His fingers bury deep and pull. _ Fuck_. It feels _ good _ and his hips press into that softness. He feels himself moan.

But his heart is still there and it feels – it feels _ bad_. There’s something, something, something... 

Someone should be here, right?

The music is pulsing but it makes it easier not to think as he presses down again, rocking his hips against the softness surrounding him. There’s laughter and he laughs too as he crawls through it. 

“You are so fucked up.” 

The voice is garbled and far away and he can’t place it but it’s okay because he’s pretty sure it’s not about him anyway. There are a lot of people here – he remembers that. Remembers kissing someone as he pressed his mouth into that softness and moans again. He’s struggling but it feels good, so much better than what’s inside of him and he just wants to focus on the external.

He feels fingers in his hair but that feels good too. It’s not soft but it feels _ good _ and all he wants is to feel _ good_. He knows that. That’s one thing that stands out stark in his mind. Stark. He’s tired of feeling stark. No. He’s tired of feeling _ like _ a Stark. 

Just the thought makes me want to drown in the softness around – beside – underneath? him. He knows what stark means. Stiff, unyielding, hard, severe, impossible to avoid, incapable of movement. And he knows what Stark means, too. Cold, calculating, iron will, long silences and cruel games, alcohol that numbs the pain. 

Suddenly he’s ripped from the softness and he cries out in alarm but then he can’t even hear his own voice anymore and there’s something in his mouth and – oh. OH. 

It’s good and warm and he feels good again even though he’s struggling to breath. There are hands on his skin and then laughter and then suddenly it’s too much and he feels fucking _ trapped_. His heart starts slamming in his too small chest and it’s – fuck. There’s hands on his hips and in his hair and he can’t breath because something is in his mouth and then there’s something in his ass and oh – _ fuck _. 

He claws out in desperation, trying to scream but he chokes instead and his throat convulses and he starts to gag and – 

“What the FUCK.” 

It’s hard. He’s ripped away and it’s hard when he falls and for a blinding second he’s staring up at a man much older than himself with his dick out and he realizes he’s laying on a shag carpet and the whole room is smokey and there’s people everywhere but he doesn’t recognize any of them. 

And he groans and closes his eyes as there’s a searing pain in his head – and _ wow _ – holy _ fuck _ – it _ hurts _ – and.

He turns his face into the carpet and curls up on himself and oh. It’s _ soft_. 

Soft.

It’s so soft.

It feels like... strict white sheets. grass in the country. pale skin and a necklace made of emerald. curly brown hair and sad brown eyes. cupcakes topped with white marshmallow cream. 

He’s moaning and his hips work at the ground and he’s painfully hard but – 

There’s something he needs to do but it feels so good just to lay there again with his face buried in softness like when he was a little kid and his heart hurt and – and his mom was there still and she –

But that hurt and he wanted to feel good so he slid along the ground because that? That felt good. 

“God, you gross, pathetic little cunt.”

He ignores it though and his fingers dig in the carpeting and he’s looking for – for – for – for his_ phone _ – his phone his phone!

He touches it with his fingertips but then his face is pressed so hard into the ground he hears himself yelp and he thinks if there’s one more ounce of pressure on his face his nose might break. 

He’s crying – fuck. He hates crying because he’s stark, he’s _ a _ Stark, but he’s crying and there’s laughter from all around him and it makes it worse and he scrunches up on himself, cradling his arms around his face protectively. There’s nothing that can save him now.

His head is jerked roughly to the side and everything is blurry as he cries and something sweet is put in his mouth and then he is released to a chorus of laughter.

“That oughta do it.” 

There’s only one thought in his head and he grabs his phone and he can’t even see the screen and his fingers are shaking as he tries to navigate it. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to do but it hurts it hurts it – oh _ God_. 

Suddenly everything isn’t what it was and he closes his eyes and lays there for a long long time. It’s soft underneath him and when he opens his eyes again nothing is right so he keeps them closed. But his chest hurts so fucking _ bad _ and when he opens his eyes the monster under his bed is sitting on his chest and it’s digging its claws in _ hard _.

He’s paralyzed with fear as he stares up at it and it hurts so so so so _ bad _ and he doesn’t know what to do. It laughs at him as it reaches its ghostly talons deep under his ribs and he feels like he can't breathe, like he’s choking on air, like going to have a _ fucking heart attack _, like he might throw up, like – like he should just close his eyes again and he does. 

It’s not real, he tells himself. The monster under his bed. Mom said it wasn’t real, wasn’t really real, not really and if he just covers himself with his blanket, right up to his chin, he knows it can’t get him. But his fingers reach blindly and there’s nothing there but that sinking softness and maybe maybe maybe if he buries his face in it just right it can protect him. 

He can feel the monster on his back now and it spreads his legs and he flat out screams. It’s laughing at him as he digs his hands in the carpet and tries to drag himself forward but it holds his legs down.

It was supposed to feel good but it doesn’t any more and he’s crying again and it’s wet under his face but at least it’s still soft and it’s it’s it’s like –

_ Hush baby, it’s okay _ and that soft, cool washcloth on his face and white sheets and hiss whir click click click and he thinks if there wasn’t so much pain this could be heaven. 

So he doesn’t question it when he looks up and sees an angel. 

“Come on. I’m going to get you out of here.”

The relief is instantaneous and the brightness of the figure hurts his eyes and he closes them in abject relief, reaching out for her. It must be his mother, come down to banish all his demons as she always did. To tell him the monster isn’t there and vanquish it from his mind. 

She’s dead. He knows that. She’s dead, she’s dead, he saw her in the coffin surrounded by pure white just like she is now. Now. Here with him because she’s watching over him, always, and she won’t let the monster out from under the bed. 

“Tony.” 

It’s not his mother’s voice but he’s still pressed against something soft and he buries his head in it as he opens his eyes carefully. 

His mother is replaced by strong, warm arms and an unmistakably masculine scent and he realizes she is gone now and she left him with Bruce and oh God, oh God – thank you, thank you, thank you. 

He doesn’t pray much but he prays now and the words are tumbling out of his mouth as his feet drag along the ground. Just like when he was a little kid and his whole chest ached and he cried into his bed sheets. 

_ God, oh God, please, please, please – if I don’t die tonight then I’ll be such a good boy, you’ll see. I’ll be so good, so very, very good. Daddy will be so proud of me. I’ll use all the big words he likes and let him show me off to all his friends. I won’t cry or talk too loud or play with his models any more. Please, please don’t let me die. _

“Tony.”

_ Please! I – I – I’ll be so good, mommy won’t have to stay up with me. She won’t have to rescue me any more. She can stay with you in heaven. _

“Tony.” 

_ Please don’t let me die tonight. _

“Tony. Shut up.”

_ Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever amen. _

He’s having a fucking full blown spiritual experience now and it’s cold but in a good way because his skin is so fucking hot and his heart hurts so bad and he’s pretty sure he’s on the ground, his hand and knees are against something rough and hard and it feels like – like – like _ gravel_.

“Are you going to be sick?” 

_ Fuck _ he can’t deal with a question because he is staring into blackness and if he tips forward just a little he knows he’s going to fall into it forever and ever and ever and – and he doesn’t want to die tonight. Not now that Bruce is here.

“Goddamn it, Tony.”

For a minute his whole world is a fumbling disaster of blurred lights and his head is encased in – in something – something familiar and there is something... something he is supposed to be doing. And then there’s this muffled smacking on his skull and fuck, he’s way more fucked up than he thought. Then it’s over and he blinks and he looks at Bruce and he sees him clearly for the first time. 

“Can you hold on?” 

He blinks again. 

_ Bruce! _

Bruce smiles at him and oh God – _ that _ feels _ good_. His chest still hurts but he reaches out for him and wraps his arms around him and he’s laughing and laughing and he wants to kiss him but he’s blocked by – by the _ helmet_. Oh. _ Fuck _ he’s fucked _ up_.

“Tony – Tony stop. Can you hold on for a little bit so we can get home?” 

Now he’s laughing so hard he can’t breath again and he can tell it’s making Bruce mad but he can’t stop. He’s coughing and choking and laughing and he’s so happy, deliriously fucking happy, and he’s holding on to Bruce as tears are streaming down his cheeks and his chest hurts so bad but Bruce is holding him back and and and – 

“Tony – stop, stop. Let’s get you home, okay?” 

_ I’ll go anywhere with you! Anywhere, anywhere, take me anywhere! Oh Bruce, oh Bruce, oh my lovely lovely Bruce! _

“I should take you to the hospital.” 

He’s shaking and shaking and his chest hurts and he knows it’s what she would have wanted but just the thought makes him feel sick enough to throw up and he’s begging, begging.

_ No no no no – no hospital, Bruce! You couldn’t! You shouldn’t! You wouldn’t dare! _

Bruce was pushing him back and helping him climb onto his motorcycle, shaking his head but the way Bruce touches him he can tell Bruce isn’t really mad. Bruce is never mad at him. Bruce is his angel. Bruce has been his angel his whole life. 

He wraps his arms around Bruce’s chest and he holds on tight so that Bruce can fly him far far away from here. Bruce’s body is warm beneath his hands and Bruce feels so good as he lays his head against Bruce’s back. The cool air whipping across him makes his skin prickle and he shivers into Bruce’s warmth. 

Bruce, Bruce, Bruce who is always there to save him. Bruised by the bullies, all black eyes and snarled teeth. Notes shared and test answers given. Pep talks and quite nights at rooftop bars getting wasted. Kisses, tucked into bed sheets. Wild eyes and a heavy fist. Always only a phone call away. Quiet and compassionate Bruce, his guardian angel full of righteous light and a thousand eyes.

Everything feels numb when he gets off the motorcycle and he’s disoriented and the helmet makes his head feel far too heavy and he can’t – he _ can’t fucking breathe _and he’s panicking, tearing at it like it’s suffocating him and when he’s finally, finally free his knees hit the ground and he’s puking his guts up all over the pavement.

Then everything fucking _ hurts _– his throat and his stomach and his chest and he can’t fucking stop heaving and he’s choking and gasping in breaths but it’s doing nothing and it feels – _ goddamn it_...! It feels like that fucking monster is back but he knows it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real because Bruce is there and Bruce is the realest goddamn thing about his life and Bruce would _ never _ let a monster get to him. 

“Fucking goddamn Christ Tony what the hell did you take? I’m going to have to call a fucking ambulance.”

He’s choking on his own vomit and he can hear himself moaning and he doesn’t know what he took but he _ doesn’t want to go back to the fucking hospital _ oh my fucking god _ hasn’t he done enough fucking __penitence_ already???

_ God – god-fucking-damn – You I told you I didn’t want to fucking die tonight! _he screams in some dark corner of his mind but does it even matter as he spits and gags again and it hurts so bad he thinks his heart might literally ex-fucking-plode but it’s not the first time it’s felt like that and he’s not dead yet. He’s not dead yet. 

But it might be kinda nice if he were. 

He’s shaking so badly when Bruce finally manages to haul him to his feet he’s not sure how he’s going to walk up a flight of stairs but Bruce manages that too. Because Bruce has always managed, always managed to be strong where he was weak, always managed to drag him along where he was falling behind. 

“I’m trashing these clothes.” 

He doesn’t argue, knows better than to argue with Bruce when he’s fucked up like this. Bruce hates to see him like this and he knows it. _ Ohmotherfuckinggoddamnhell. _ He fucked up. He fucked up really fucking bad. Fuck.

He closes his eyes so he can’t see the way the water in the tub is moving as he’s set into it because he’s scared he’s going to be sick again and Bruce is so so gentle with him as Bruce washes his hair that he starts crying. 

It’s an ugly thing. He can hear it echoing off the walls of the little bathroom and _ wow _ that fucking _ hurts_. Each painful sob sears straight down through his chest and it’s like his weak heart is splitting in two and he bends over so low he can feel the water on the tip of his nose and he thinks _ well maybe if I can just drown myself all the pain will finally, finally, finally be gone_?

“Hush Tony, it’s going to be okay.” 

The water is cold with his tears before he finally calms down enough to blink them all away and Bruce is still there, sitting on the edge of the tub, watching him with eyes that have seen too much. He’s overexposed when he’s with Bruce. Bruce knows it all. All of his eyes have seen every inch of him a hundred thousand times and Bruce is looking at him now and it’s nothing Bruce hasn’t seen before. 

Bruce helps him brush his teeth and his tongue, which is just ridiculous, but he can hardly hold the plastic stick himself and he’s shaking again but it’s like... it’s like it’s not his body somehow? He feels calm now and he stares at his hand in the mirror as Bruce’s cradles it gently and it’s shaking like a leaf and it’s fucking _ fascinating_. Why is it like that? Why is it shaking like that? He can’t figure it out. 

Bruce tucks him into bed and _ oh _ – that’s nice. He misses being tucked into bed. But his mom is dead now and no one else cares. No one but Bruce. And Bruce’s bed is nice and soft. So soft. It feels really, really good against his skin. Bruce was never a fan of those silky, high thread count ones, Bruce’s bed is made with jersey knit sheets and they’re soft and he rolls his body around on them humming with delight. 

“Fuck, Tony – stop it you weirdo.”

Bruce is laughing and that feels good too! Oh, oh – this is so much better. Oh – this is so good. He’s laughing too and the soft sheets rubbing against his dick make him deliciously horny and yeah – yeah this is way better. 

He reaches out and grabs at Bruce, pulling him down and holding him close against his chest and even though he can’t feel him under the sheets, his hands aren’t shaking so hard any more and somehow the weight of Bruce’s body on his chest makes it hurt less. 

He can hear himself repeating Bruce’s name over and over and over and over and o – he’s petting Bruce’s hair and it’s so soft, Bruce is so soft, and Bruce has stopped laughing but he’s not moving either. 

“I hate it when you get high.”

_ I love you. _

“No you don’t.”

_ I love you. _

“You barely love yourself.”

_ I love you. _

“You’re going to die.”

_ I love you. _

“I wish that were true.”

_ I love you. _

“Stop it, Tony. Stop.”

Bruce is sitting up now and his eyes are huge, too big for his face, and they look like glass and he blinks because he really wants to see them. He realizes they aren’t glass but they are leaking starlight and it’s really beautiful. 

_ I love you. _

Bruce kisses him and it’s so soft. Oh oh oh, it’s so, so soft. So tender. So sweet. Bruce never touches him unless it’s soft and tender and sweet and it’s almost more than he can bear but he wants it so badly. He just wants to feel good. Like this. He’s felt bad all his life and all he wants is to feel good. 

“I love you and it’s killing me.”

He just lays there, stunned by how beautiful it is to watch Bruce cry. Bruce’s warm palm touches him – his cheek, his neck, his chest. 

“You’re a ghost who doesn’t even know it yet.”

_ Don’t leave me. _

His fingers clutch at Bruce to get him to stay. It’s like when he was a little kid and his chest hurt so goddamn bad he thought for sure he was going to die and he was such a bad little boy, his father hated him so much that if he died he was surely going to hell and he begged his mother to stay by his side because he was so, so fucking scared to die.

Bruce wouldn’t leave him. He couldn’t. He – he – 

“Tony.” 

“Tony, let go.”

“Tony, I’m not going to leave, okay? But you have to let go.”

Slowly Bruce pries his fingers away and Tony watches intently, feeling a vague sense of panic as Bruce stands. He knows, he knows Bruce wouldn’t lie to him but.

Bruce pulls his shirt over his head and then drops his pants and all he’s wearing is boxers. Bruce gets hot at night, yeah, yeah, he knows that, and he starts to feel better about it and then Bruce pulls back the comforter. 

Everything is feeling better now, everything. His chest, his heart, he’s sore, but it’s good. And he curls up against Bruce’s chest and he can’t help rubbing his hips against his leg as he cuddles up with him. 

Bruce doesn’t say anything though. Bruce just wraps his arm around his shoulders protectively as he pets Bruce’s chest and it’s soft under his cheek. Soft skin, soft hair, soft, soft Bruce. Bruce never touches him unless it’s soft and everything about touching Bruce is soft. It feels good, though, that he still has something soft. 

It feels good that Bruce is soft, 

soft, 

soft.


End file.
